


In the Fast Lane

by catholicschoolgirl



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Sad Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-18 14:40:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2351993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catholicschoolgirl/pseuds/catholicschoolgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The first time Harry sees Zayn Malik, it's more like a flash of dark hair in a West Hollywood nightclub."</p><p>Or the one where Harry Styles is a songwriter and Zayn Malik is <i>Zayn Malik</i>. They don't really get along.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In the Fast Lane

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> Thank you to my amazing betas, especially Rue who basically held my hand through this fic and is such a source of joy in my life. Super special shout-out to Harry Styles' hands and the friend who gave me the idea for one of these scenes. You are amazing.
> 
> [Tumblr](http://catholicschoolgirl.tumblr.com/) | [Twitter](https://twitter.com/xtracalidopechk)

The first time Harry sees Zayn Malik, it's more like a flash of dark hair in a West Hollywood nightclub. It is well after one and Harry is barely coherent, leaning his arms on the whiskey-slick bar while trying to pick up the girl serving drinks behind it. She's gorgeous, tanned skin, thick red lips, and legs for miles, and she confides that she's been trying to get a deal for ages now, could definitely do with having some connections in the business. Harry licks his lips, more than ready to give the girl his phone number in case she ever wants to have a chat or maybe a romp, when Harry sees him. A fleeting streak of dark hair in the VIP section of a West Hollywood nightclub, and then a smile that lights up the entire room. His personality is fucking magnetic, even then, girls craning their neck to get a glimpse of the hottest R&B act to ever come out of the Pacific Northwest.

Harry is instantly enamored, stomach going tipsy-turvy as he remembers the first time he caught Zayn's croons on 102.7. Harry's heard his fair share of tremendous voices, girls whose whistle notes send chills down his spine and smooth falsettos that make Harry feel in tune with whatever life force courses through the universe, but Zayn's voice is something special, untrained and raw, soul dripping through every syllable and wrapping around sycophantic bass. And that's before Harry even first sees Zayn's face on an episode of 106 and Park, golden-brown skin that made Harry thinks of the sunset in Malibu, hazel eyes and a delicately sculpted face.

There's Hollywood good looks and then there's Zayn Malik, and there's really no comparison between the two.

Harry's heart catches in his throat as he tracks Zayn's movement through the VIP balcony, the way people drift and bend around him like magnetic currents. Harry ignores the girl completely, misses her disappointed humph as he watches Zayn with wide eyes and an optimistic fluttering in his ribcage.

Harry forgets all about it by the next morning when he is gripping the edge of his toilet seat and retching, cursing Jello-shots and lemon drops, only half-remembering a snatch of black hair through the strobe lights.

 

The second time Harry sees Zayn Malik, it's during a raucous weekend in Vegas. Harry's there for a Mayweather fight and to do some hobnobbing with a few execs from the label when he gets word that some big singer is having a no-holds bar, anything goes party in the Hugh Hefner Sky Villa at the Palms and Harry is more than welcome to come through. Harry's high on life, skin itching and eager to see just which superstar flew in damn near half of LA to party with him, when he's escorted into the $40,000 a night suite. Zayn's just as beautiful in person as he is on the cover of _Rolling Stone_ , wearing slacks that cost more than Harry's rent and an Armani shirt that Harry remembers gaping over in the most recent issue of _GQ_. Everything in the suite seems to be bathed in red light and there's ashtrays and bags of cocaine sitting on a table besides the glass wall jacuzzi. Harry feels out of his element immediately, standing around in scuffed up boots and his plaid button-down, and he meanders through the party, grabbing a flute of champagne before making his way back to the jacuzzi.

Someone Harry vaguely recognizes from Republic Records briefly introduces Harry to Zayn, who screws up his face contemplatively before upending a bottle of Dom Perignon into his mouth. “You're the one who wrote that song for Ariana Grande, right?” Zayn asks, pink lips shiny with the residue of thousand dollar champagne.

Harry nods in the affirmative, mesmerized by the pull of Zayn's mouth and the way his shirt stretches across broad shoulders. Harry's mom always complains that Harry falls in love at the drop of a pin, with the whisper of the wind and the way the sun looks at midday, with ideas and insinuations. And Harry thinks she might be right with the way Harry's blood stops its track through his veins, almost as though the soaring potential in his heart made his arteries slow. Harry's sure of it – Zayn's face is the type that you fall in love with over and over again throughout the day, every stolen glance like a new awakening.

Zayn pulls a face, eyes going dark, and mutters something about “hating that fucking cheesy ass song.” He departs in a haze of marijuana smoke and leaves Harry feeling small and unwelcome in a gaudy hotel suite a few hundred miles away from home.

 

The third time Harry sees Zayn Malik, it's because powers greater than himself force him to. A hot up-and-coming producer by the name of Niall Horan really liked the songs Harry had been writing with John Legend and asks to meet Harry at Tierra Mia of all fucking places. They end up spending four hours there, talking about love and the pretense of Hollywood and the lure of temptation and the fundamentally life-altering power of music and Niall ends up laughing and saying that they need to lay down tracks together because the energy between them is irresistible and Harry agrees because he can feel it too, the rare slip and lock into place you feel when you meet someone who unequivocally understands you.

Niall's spot is a few blocks away in one of the new developments they're building all over downtown and the minute Harry steps into the apartment Harry grins because it's so obvious Niall lives and breathes music – his living room is basically converted into a studio, padding all over the walls and a makeshift sound booth pushed against the far corner. They spend the next two days jamming, taking minimal breaks, frenzied writing and assembling delirious beats. Niall would only stop to mutter to himself that he knew “exactly who this track would be perfect for, fucking _exactly_.”

And on the third day holed up together, Zayn fucking Malik swings through Niall's apartment, dressed in all-gray sweats and an Obey snapback, and Harry freezes, feeling betrayed when Niall introduces them, Zayn's eyes sliding over Harry like he was hardly even there. Harry spares a brief moment to wonder if Zayn remembers him at all, but it doesn't matter, because Niall announces that Zayn just _has_ to hear this demo, _just has to_ , even though Niall doesn't know – how could he know? That there is no one in the industry that Harry is as weary of more than R&B superstar Zayn Malik? His label had been trying to get Harry to pitch a song to Zayn for ages, and Harry just couldn't, doesn't even want to go there. Not when Zayn's drunken words at the Palms still make Harry's hands sweat, stomach bubbling over with nerves.

Niall hits play on the demo and Zayn cocks his head, face unreadable as he listens. Zayn nods his head imperceptibly when the beat drops and Harry's graveling voice on the track dips and grooves around Niall's soaring guitar riff, and Harry lets out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. “S'alright,” Zayn mumbles, digging his hands into his pockets. “Little too Rock-n-Roll for me, though.”

“Not even,” Niall retorts with a scoff as the track drifts to a close. “Miguel's screeching in the night is more Rock-n-Roll than this, Zayner. This is fucking pop.”

“We're not talking about Miguel though, are we?” Zayn counters with a small, self-satisfied smirk. “Is this what you and pretty boy have been working on for the past few days then?”

Harry frowns at the term, unable to decipher whether it is some sort of backhanded compliment or not. “Amongst other things,” Niall answers. “I think he should write for you on the new album. He'll give you the sort of edge you've been looking for.”

Zayn's eyes dart to consider Harry and Harry feels himself shrinking underneath Zayn's harsh hazel gaze. “Think you could handle it, pretty boy? You'll end up with callouses on this soft hands. ABC rhymes won't cut it for me like it does for Ariana Grande.”

“Could've had me fooled,” Harry says. “ _Gotta Be You_ was pretty elementary.”

Niall cackles and Zayn actually smirks, ducking his head down and biting his lip in a way that makes Harry's brain inexplicably short-circuit. “All right,” Zayn says, quirking an eyebrow in mirth. “I'll be in Toronto for a little bit, but when I come back, show me what you've got, 'kay?”

“Sure,” Harry answers with a shrug and Zayn salutes before turning and making his way out of the apartment.

Harry begins to panic almost immediately thereafter.

 

The fourth time Harry goes to see Zayn Malik, it's a planned meeting. Harry spends more time worrying about it than he should. Niall assures him that there's nothing to be anxious about, that Zayn is going to _love_ his songs, but Harry isn't so sure. Harry does have a bit of a niche in the songwriting world with so many of his tracks eventually going to Fifth Harmony, Katy Perry, Kesha and the like. Female vocalists with sugary sweet lyrics, double entendres and tongue in cheek gems. Harry likes writing for women, likes the way their voices smooth out his coarse wordplay, and Zayn isn't that, is all cocky bravado and “I'm so good I'll make you forget about him,” but Niall says Harry's songwriting is exactly what Zayn needs. An injection of pop, someone to smooth out his rough edges while still layering on just enough grit to keep people intrigued.

Harry trusts Niall without question, it's impossible not to, but Zayn somehow gets a hold of Harry's phone number and takes to texting Harry at all hours of the day with some of Harry's less sophisticated lyrics, which really just makes Harry ask himself a) whether Zayn has better things to do with his life than torment Harry, and b) what the fuck Zayn's problem is.

Niall insists that Zayn's just teasing, that he's really a softie and is just pushing Harry's buttons because Harry gives him a reaction, but Harry feels bullied more than anything else. It's not fair, really, that Zayn is being so hard on Harry when Harry's trying to provide a simple fucking service, but whatever. If Zayn wants to be a dick, that's his choice. Harry just wants to get paid and move on with his life.

Niall drives Harry to Zayn's house in Venice. Zayn lives in a surprisingly modest neighborhood as far as LA goes, and Harry actually recognizes Kesha's bungalow as they drive by. Zayn's own place is a Spanish ranch-style property, two floors with a handful of bedrooms and a little studio out back. Some petite blonde girl meets them at the door, introducing herself as Zayn's girlfriend, and Harry feels a hot flare of jealousy erupt in his chest before following her through the house, making note of all the knickknacks and framed artwork as he walks by.

Zayn himself is sitting in the kitchen peeling some potatoes with a cigarette dangling in between puckered pink lips. He looks like some sort of French art house star with the way the midday sun is drifting through the house's rounded windows – sharp angular jaw, dark hair flopping over the side of his face and stubble decorating his cheeks and dancing down the smooth column of his neck. Even the circles under his eyes are beautiful, reminding Harry of the charcoal smudges an artist adds to a piece with the pad of their thumb. Harry coasts through the surge of attraction, telling himself quietly that his feelings are nothing more than the up-up-up of a roller coaster, letting himself feel the dizzying height of it before releasing a smooth breath. Harry clenches down on his fear and insecurity and bizarre desire to make Zayn like him, hides it somewhere that Zayn hopefully can't see, although when Zayn looks up following his girlfriend's introduction, eyelashes as dark as the ocean floor, Harry feels as though he didn't bury his optimism deep enough.

Zayn leads them through to the studio out back. It's a nice day but not hot, and Harry feels out of sorts when Zayn pulls his tank top off and tosses it onto the back of a lounger while Niall fiddles with the stereo system, getting the demo ready to play. Zayn's got ink everywhere, which Harry figures he distantly knew already, but it's different seeing it in person. Elegant script along his collarbone, chimerical pieces decorating his forearm, and a heart that sits low on his hip, peaking out from black Armani underwear. Zayn smirks at Harry and Harry blushes, feeling found out, but Zayn surprisingly doesn't tease, instead turns to Niall and presses his hand in between Niall's shoulder blades. Niall gets the first demo track to start, and Harry's voice comes out like a boom through the system, Niall nodding his head when the bass begins to creep in.

“You've got a really nice baritone,” Zayn mumbles halfway through the chorus, his tone sounding somewhat bewildered behind the compliment.

“Thank you,” Harry answers politely. “I can't hit some of the higher tenor notes for shit anymore, though.”

Zayn hums thoughtfully and listens through the rest of the song, chewing his lip and scratching at his ribcage. The demo ends and Niall turns around in his chair and looks at Zayn expectantly, a grin hesitantly dancing across his face.

“Dunno, don't really think it's me,” Zayn mumbles. “Maybe if we rearrange the bridge? Seems too repetitive. But it's a decent start. You have any other tracks for me?”

Zayn slices through every single one of Harry's demos, shooting the tracks down for increasingly whimsical reasons, a self-satisfied smirk dancing across his face. Harry tries his best not to react, is so affable and accommodating that he almost feels as though an award for sainthood is deserved at this point, but Harry can tell that even _Niall_ is getting frustrated, his face turning redder and redder as he goes through track after track and has to listen to Zayn's ridiculous criticisms. During the second to last track, Zayn makes some sort of snide remark that the song sounds like “something you should just pass right over to Rihanna,” and Harry just feels so fucking _done_ and needlessly insulted that he stands and walks out of the studio, back through the house, and out to Niall's car, where he sits out by the curb alone for twenty minutes.

When Harry goes home, he emails the song to one of Rihanna's producers, purely out of spite.

 

The fifth time Harry is forced into close quarters with Zayn Malik, it's almost a year and a half later and totally against Harry's better judgment.

Harry follows Zayn's career in the interim – it would have been close to impossible not to. Malik arrested in a brawl in Miami. R&B superstar Zayn Malik's highly anticipated album is delayed. Grammy-award winning star splits from longtime girlfriend amidst cheating rumors. And then a hush-hush trip to Passages.

So the phone call kinda feels like something truly out of the blue. But a job's a job, and if the label wants to go all-in for Zayn's next album – the comeback of the year or whatever – Harry's not going to say no when he's told he's been selected as part of the all-star team. That song Zayn laughed at last year _did_ end up going double-platinum with Rihanna's soft head voice cruising over the melody. Even when Harry's told that the deadline to get something to the execs is impossibly soon to capitalize on the holiday crunch, Harry just grits his teeth and says that he'll find a way to make it work.

The label immediately e-mails him a one-way plane ticket to Seattle.

 

The whole thing reminds Harry of all of the stories he read about Kanye West recording _My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy_. The troubled star in self-imposed exile trope, holed up in a mansion, surrounded by talent and determined to create the sort of album that charts on Billboard and tops best album year-end lists. Although if Harry got his way, he would much rather be in Hawaii than fucking Medina, Washington. The house is nice, though – seven bedrooms, seven baths, Mediterranean architecture and a gated flowing driveway. Pure opulence. When the taxi drops him off out front, Harry isn't sure whether he's impressed or repulsed.

It's a dizzying experience. Harry is relieved to see that Niall's also been enlisted on the project, same with Liam Payne, a vocal coach and writer from the label (and a three-time Grammy winner at that), and Louis Tomlinson, a producer that Harry was friendly with from work on Kesha's album. Other producers, writers, and musicians seem to come and go like gusts of wind, but along with Zayn himself, Niall, Louis, Liam, and Harry serve as the core recording team.

What Harry doesn't expect is that they all seem to legitimately work _well_ together. Niall is easy-going, Liam vacillates between seriousness and goofiness so quickly it blows Harry's mind, and Louis is such a riot that they spend every moment they're not trying to come up with life-changing lyrics and hypnotizing beats laughing their heads off.

But what baffles Harry is how fucking _quiet_ Zayn is. Because he is. Paler and thinner than Harry remembers even though Zayn has always been slight, but simultaneously softer too. Even with the sharp angles of his cheekbones and the brittle grip of his hands, his hazel eyes shone tender, lips shiny as he approaches the mic in the recording booth they re-purposed out of one of the spare guest rooms.

It's almost like now that Harry knows all of Zayn's dirty laundry, sordid details blasted all over TMZ and included in court documents, he can only see how _miserable_ Zayn had to have been every other time they met, even with a million-dollar smile firmly affixed to his face. And that's not – that doesn't really excuse anything. Doesn't excuse Zayn calling Harry a mediocre songwriter and pestering him with cruel texts at four in the morning before insinuating that what Harry did was somehow lowly or cheap just because Harry made his living peddling pop songs when Zayn made his millions doing essentially the exact same thing. But it does explain why Zayn was up at four in the morning more often than not, and Harry wonders what it means that Zayn's mind rattled over Harry when he was alone with nothing but his thoughts, his drugs, and his phone.

 

They avoid each other for the first few days, although when they are forced to interact, Zayn is nothing but cordial. Harry tells himself to keep his distance and remain weary, memories of every other encounter seeping through his mind whenever he feels himself getting too comfortable around Zayn. But at the same time, Harry can't help but hope that this go around everything is _different_. He's always been a bit of an optimist, and Zayn seems so much happier, laughing at Louis' jokes before ruffling Liam's hair and crowding behind Niall and asking if Niall can teach him a few chords on the guitar. Harry will find himself looking up from his notebook, contemplating the way Zayn's black hair swirls at the back of his neck, curling around the splash of ink he has at the nape, or admiring Zayn's rich Lyrical-Spinto Tenor when he gets in the booth and just fucking belts notes that have Louis' jaw dropping open in glee.

“That was sick, but it was also a little sharp,” Niall says after Zayn pushes one side of his headphones off his ear. “Could you try it again? And don't rush through it – feel the beat out. You've _got_ this. Your technique has gotten so much better, bro. What'd I tell you and Li about concentrating on your head voice? Shit strengthens your belt, too.”

“Could you give me the note again?” Zayn asks, cheeks a little pink. Liam hums under his breath, eyes rolled up to the ceiling once he opens his mouth and holds the note out. Zayn nods, warbling and matching Liam, and Niall starts the beat up once more, this slick trip-hop groove that Louis came up with after smoking three roll-ups in Zayn's bathroom one night and banging some empty steel water bottles together. Zayn swings his hands and bops his head to the rhythm, closing his eyes as his voice soars over the track. Harry curses and feels the choking headiness of lust creep through him once more, excusing himself so that he wouldn't swoon over Zayn's giddy smile.

 

Harry loses count of how many times he and Zayn have met and reintroduced themselves with the same stupid result, but when Harry's in the kitchen making himself hot cocoa and Zayn pads through in nothing but a pair of soft, gray boxers, Harry realizes with a start that this is the first time they've ever been alone together.

“Is there enough for me?” Zayn asks, settling at the island and propping his cheek on a closed fist. “Hot chocolate sounds lovely right now.”

“Um, yeah, of course,” Harry answers, adding a little more milk to the pan he's already got simmering on the stove. Zayn hums, low and pleased, and Harry bites at his lip, unsure whether that's an invitation to keep talking or what. It's early, but not really – something like two PM, but with the way their sleep schedules have been all out of whack lately, it might as well be six in the morning considering how hushed and still the mansion is. Louis' actually out with his girlfriend in Seattle proper, and Niall went to a Seahawks game the night before and got fucked up, so he'll probably be out for the majority of the day. And Liam runs and goes boxing and all sorts of shit after he first gets up every morning – Harry's not even sure if he's in the house, either.

It's just Harry and Zayn in the weirdest possible way, and Harry really, really wants to abort mission and go hide out in his room.

“I really like the track you and Li are writing,” Zayn mumbles around a yawn. “The one about the girl with raven-colored hair.”

“Liam's showed it to you?” Harry squawks.

“Yeah, the lyrics are fucking dope,” Zayn continues. “I love the whole unrequited thing. S'my favorite.”

“Liam wrote most of it,” Harry replies airily, mixing in powdered cocoa and sugar. “So if it's good, it's because of him.”

“That's funny,” Zayn says. “Cuz Liam said you practically wrote the whole thing. Showed me the ripped out page from your notebook and everything.”

Harry stills.

It starts to rain, fat drops that lash against the kitchen windows and bathe the room in a dark blue glow.

“I never apologized to you,” Zayn mutters, staring down at the outline of a bird on his hand. “I was a fucking dick when you and Niall first came to me with tracks and it was really uncalled for _and_ unprofessional on top of it. I – I'm sorry. I really am.”

“It's okay,” Harry answers weakly.

“Don't say that,” Zayn replies forcefully. “Don't say that, because it wasn't okay. Not at all. You – your talent – you deserved so much better than that.”

Harry nods and Zayn lets out a long breath, smile weak and watery when his eyes dart up to look at Harry.

“I never imagined it would be like this, you know?” Zayn admits, his eyes tracing the pitter-patter of raindrops. “Like – that my life could ever end up being so messy. I thought I had a good team around me. A beautiful girl at my side. But I let the wrong people in and started saying 'Yes' to everything. I was so dumb. And I think about it sometimes, even though it's pointless. How things could've gone differently, if I'd made different choices. Better choices. Like, if I'd gone up to you that night.”

Harry blinks, hands clenching at the counter top as though it's a fucking lifeline. “What do you mean?”

“Dunno where it was now – some club in LA when I was still doing that circuit,” Zayn answers with a self-effacing chuckle. “But I remember I was there performing and I looked through the crowd, and there you were. Sitting in a booth, scribbling away. I didn't even know what I was feeling – just that I couldn't tear my eyes away from you. Wanted to know what you were working on, who you were thinking about, whether I was enough to get you to look up. I wanted to talk to you _so badly_ , but I was nobody. I was nobody, some kid who needed fucking liquid courage or lines of coke just to get on stage without puking, and so. So I didn't say anything. Didn't do anything.”

“I – I don't remember this,” Harry admits with a gasp. “When? When was this?”

Zayn lifts a shoulder and smiles. “Doesn't really matter now, does it? _Years_ ago. You had no clue who I was, and that's. It doesn't matter. It doesn't mean anything.”

“It could,” Harry tries. “It could mean so much.”

Zayn tilts his head to the side and Harry busies himself with turning the stove off and pulling two mugs down from one of the cabinets. Zayn accepts his cup of cocoa with a quietly murmured word of thanks, wrapping his hands around the handle and biting his lip, warm honey-colored eyes almost pleading.

“This is the part where I tell you I was the boy in school pulling the girl's pigtails,” Zayn says, voice clear and ringing. “And it's also the part where you tell me that that's not an acceptable way to get someone's attention.”

“You made me cry,” Harry confides in a whisper, holding his mug up to his lips but not taking a sip. “The time Niall and I played all those demos for you. I cried the entire drive home because even though Niall said you were going to love every single track, I knew deep down that you would end up making fun of me. And being right was worse than _anything_.”

Zayn shudders and leans his elbow on the top of the island, worrying his fingers through his hair and screwing his eyes shut. “I don't even remember that day,” Zayn confesses, voice broken and forlorn. “I remember Niall calling me and yelling about it afterward, saying I fucked up any chance of ever being cool with you, but I don't even remember what I _said_.”

Harry scoffs and puts the mug back on the table, closing his eyes and slowly counting to ten in a desperate plea to dispel the cruel symphony in his head.

“I wanted you to like me so badly,” Harry hisses. “It was all I wanted and you just.” Harry gulps and can't even finish the sentence.

Harry hardly even hears the thunder over the loud pounding in his own ears. Zayn's eyes feel like claws tearing back Harry's epidermis, and Harry feels raw and gruesome, everything he had wanted to keep from Zayn's gaze laid bare.

“And now?” Zayn licks over his bottom lip and nibbles the corner of his mouth. “Do you hate me?”

“No. Now you've just got to know.”

“What?”

“Who the song Liam showed you is really about.”

Zayn sets his mug down and Harry waits.

 

The first time Harry kisses Zayn Malik, Harry's got his back pressed against the edge of the kitchen island. The inside of Zayn's mouth tastes like hot cocoa and it's raining outside, the perfect soundtrack to couple the little mewl of breath Zayn expels when Harry runs his tongue along the seam of Zayn's lips. Harry's elated that Zayn is already in only his boxer briefs because it means Harry can run greedy fingers over Zayn's ribcage, resting his thumbs in the indents of Zayn's waist. Zayn huffs an eager breath and brings his own hands to meet Harry's, linking them together and pulling back just enough to examine the grooves on Harry's fingertips.

“You've got calluses on your fingers,” Zayn marvels. “You didn't, before. When – ?”

“Niall's been teaching me the guitar,” Harry answers, tone hesitant and defensive. “Is it – ?”

“Why wouldn't it be okay?” Zayn asks, leaning forward and pressing their lips together, Harry's eyes fluttering closed as the brightness of a theme park explodes behind his eyelids. “I always used to be jealous of how soft and pretty your hands were, before, especially for a writer, but this – this is good. This is beautiful. _You're_ beautiful.”

Harry gapes at Zayn, buries his head in the crook of Zayn's neck, sniffling against his collarbone and feeling completely overwhelmed. Zayn squeezes Harry's palm and hums against the top of Harry's head, pressing a kiss against the hairline while Harry mutters, “You're beautiful – no, you're beautiful.”

 

The first time Harry fucks Zayn Malik, it's against that same kitchen island, but the album's done and they're all alone and there's a different storm brewing outside and it's almost as powerful as the one fizzling through Harry's veins. Getting his hands on Zayn feels less like a celebration and more like creation, years of pain and confusion and misunderstanding finally giving way to something new, something great. Zayn jumps up onto the counter, knocking over bottles of spices and someone's neglected water bottle, and begs to feel the calluses on Harry's fingers inside of him, wants Harry to play him like an instrument. Harry opens Zayn agonizingly slow with fingers dripping lube onto the hardwood floor and the granite counter top, Zayn's chest rising and falling as he grips Harry's arm so tightly Harry can already see the hint of a bruise. It feels like they have all the time in the world, sober life together seeming like the best sort of promise, tears collecting in Zayn's eyelashes as he clenches around Harry's intruding fingers and begs for more.

And there's still so much remaining unsaid between them, and Harry doesn't know whether it's naivety to hope for happily ever after, but his mother did always say he was a romantic, so he knows he's gonna give it a go either way. Harry withdraws his fingers from Zayn's body, Zayn's gasping sigh sounding like a prayer, and Harry rips the condom open with his teeth before rolling it over his length and squeezing lube into his palm. Harry's never really been one for religion, the only thing he believes in is the scratch of his pen and the roar of a sick bass line, but everything about Zayn's body makes him reverential and thankful. From the secret tattoo on the inside of Zayn's thigh to the way his skin transitions from tanned browns to a paler creamier olive and back again, the way his thick, cut cock tastes and how desperately he groans when Harry slides his dick against Zayn's entrance just to tease. Zayn's not perfect, he's not faultless or unblemished, far fucking from it, but he's peerless, fucking sublime, and when Harry sinks his cock into Zayn, so good and so tight and _so much_ that his eyes roll back into his head, Harry has the dizzying thought that nothing will ever compare.

Harry rocks his hips and Zayn groans loud and unabashed, his hand creeping down to wrap around himself, jerking slow to the hot press of Harry's dick. Every centimeter feels like paradise and Harry can already imagine all of the soppy Zayn-inspired songs he'll be penning, odes to the tremble of Zayn's thighs, the stuttering ecstasy of his voice. Zayn bites his lip hard and coughs out a sob when he orgasms, splashing hot come all over his fist and banging his head against the counter top so hard he lets out a small but pleased hiss of pain. Harry fucks him slow through the aftershocks, Zayn's body seemingly sucking Harry in even deeper, pelvis to bone, and it's only when Zayn's eyes flutter open, pinning into Harry's soul and smiling in spite of everything he sees, that Harry feels his body let go, coming hot and deep inside of the condom and shuddering on top of Zayn, his heart beating a discordant melody.

 

The second time Harry sleeps with Zayn Malik is good, too. And the third, and the fourth, and eventually, in between filled notebook pages and trips around the world and albums sold, Harry loses count.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope this didn't suck xx


End file.
